


Sweet Dreams, Sleep Tight (I Love You, Goodnight)

by 0neType



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fellswap, Appetite Loss, Depression, Gen, Insomnia, References to Suicide, Self-Worth Issues, platonic, though I won't be upset if you read it differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: Papyrus has had trouble sleeping lately. Has had trouble doing a lot of things, really. He doesn't quite have the energy to fix it but... if it's bothering Sans, he'll just have to find some way to solve the problem.





	Sweet Dreams, Sleep Tight (I Love You, Goodnight)

**Author's Note:**

> for an "ameizing" friend of mine who loves fellswap in all its forms but was craving some platonic fluff ;3

Papyrus is tired but he can’t sleep. It’s been like that for weeks. He lays his head down at the end of the night and stares up at the bumps and cracks in his ceiling till his brother is slamming open his door and calling him downstairs. There’s not a moment of rest in between.

He hasn’t told Sans about it. His brother thinks that Papyrus sleeps all night and naps all day and he’s fine with that, really, it’s not like he does anything worthwhile with his time anyways. Everyday it’s the same—get up, get changed, go to work, come home, lie in bed, get up the next day and on and on till each day blurs into the next and Papyrus is staring blankly into the middle distance even with his brother talking right at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sans scowls, scarred eye socket scrunching up.

Papyrus shrugs. “Just tired, bro.”

It’s the best possible answer he can give, half-sprawled as he is over the top of his sentry station. Sans had caught him dozing. Again. Despite repeated warnings about how dangerous doing something like that in plain sight is.

“How can you possibly be tired when all you ever do is laze about?”

He stares at the grooves of the wood making up his station, phalanges lightly brushing against the nips and cracks. “… dunno.”

Sans sighs, and Papyrus doesn’t have to look up at him to know that his hands must be on his hips and his expression one of annoyance. He’s waiting for the usual—the yelling, the chastising—but his brother remains wordless, simply standing in place. Papyrus raises his head up off the station to look at him, skull feeling heavy and weighted even though he moves it only the scantest of inches off of its support.

His brother’s expression is indiscernible, looking right past him.

“M’lord…?” He calls, and that, at least, seems to shake Sans out of whatever it is he’s thinking about.

“Get your shit together, Papyrus.” Sans grits out, crossing his arms across his chest as he turns on his heel. He’s stomping away through the snow before Papyrus can respond.

He watches as his brother disappears into the distance, phalanges still scraping across the coarse surface of wood at his fingertips. Sans is concerned about him, that much is obvious. A rush of guilt floods into his bones, anxiousness spilling into his soul. He hadn’t meant to make his brother upset.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, posture as straight and alert as he can make it. He’s exhausted but that’s not an excuse. Sans got him this job and to do anything less than his absolute best as sentry would be to disregard his brother’s efforts.

Papyrus ignores the heaviness of his bones and the stiffness in his joints and remains at attention.

By the end of his shift, he’s aching all over.

 

 

 

“Eat.” He’s trained himself out of hesitance when it comes to his brother’s commands but, somehow right now, he doesn’t move when Sans sets a plate down in front of him.

It’s nothing home-made either.

It’s greasy and unhealthy and no-doubt obscenely priced—food straight from Muffet’s. Sans hates it whenever Papyrus eats this stuff. For him to have picked this up and brought it home for him…

“Thank you, m’lord,” Papyrus says, the unexpected gift startling him into being formal even though they’re alone in the safety of their own home, “However, I’m… not very hungry.”

Sans’ eyelights are sharp, his grip on Papyrus’s shoulder even sharper. “When was the last time you ate anything at all?”

He thinks.

Even as he does so, he knows that he shouldn’t have to think at all. He tenses up under his brother’s hand as he realises that he can’t remember. Sans’ doesn’t react to it in the slightest but it feels like his grip digs into him anyways. Like a reprimand for all the things he should be able to do easily but can’t.

“ _Eat_ ,” Sans repeats.

Papyrus reaches out for the burger in front of him, feeling out-of-body as his hands float in his vision. The burger is warm and giving under his touch, his phalanges pressing easily into the bun. He raises to his mouth and takes a bite, teeth tearing through to the patty.

He feels like he’s going to throw up.

Sans looks pleased though, as he takes that first bites and chews on it thoroughly. So, Papyrus keeps eating. One bite after another till the whole thing is gone and its magic is coursing thick and burning through Papyrus’s body.

His brother hums with satisfaction, next pushing the container of fries and a large drink his way.

Papyrus feels his soul churn violently at the thought of consuming anything else. His skull pounds, threatening the start of a headache. He’s bone-tired, the effort of finishing that one burger having taken all of his energy to do. But…

… what kind of brother would he be if he couldn’t do this much for Sans?

He reaches out for the drink first, willing his hand to stop shaking as his phalanges curl around the stiff container. The outside is dripping with condensation, cool to his hot touch. He traps the straw between his teeth and takes a long sip, sockets tearing up as carbonated liquid fills his mouth.

He swallows.

Sans smiles.

 

 

 

Getting to the store takes him three days of pushing himself. Even before getting that far though, it’d taken four days of research. The whole thing wears him out something awful, but it helps that he understands that it’s for his brother’s benefit.

Knowing that doing this will ease Sans’ worry fills him with…

… well, the resolve to do what he needs to. Or something like it anyway.

The bunny running the store stares sternly up at him while her child darts in between the shelves. “You need a prescription for these.”

Wordless, he slips a few extra gold coins onto the countertop. The metal clinks together, loud despite the ruckus her child causes in the background. She doesn’t break eye contact with him, doesn’t react at all, as she reaches out and drags the coins closer to herself. She scoops them up with ease, pocketing them before turning away from him. The bunny bends down and unlocks a drawer, rustling around in it before facing him once again.

She pushes a discreet, unmarked, white bottle towards him without any fanfare. “Thank you for your patronage.”

Papyrus shoves the bottle into the pocket of his hoodie and turns his hood up, the fluff brushing up against the sharp edges of his face as he moves away from her. He keeps one hand on the bottle and pushes the door open with his other, exiting the shop. He absently clicks the lid over and over as he makes his way home.

The tablets are 5 mg each. The recommended daily dosage is less than 10 mg per day. The side effects are negligible—it’s not like he doesn’t deal with headaches already anyway.

Ideally, he knows, these sorts of medications are supposed to be taken under advisement of a doctor of some sort. Doing that, however, would mean seeking out a willing professional that wouldn’t backstab the brother of a Royal Guard the second they got a chance. Plus, even just the thought of seeking someone out, of talking and planning with them, makes an anxious sweat break out over his body.

His own research and careful experimentation would have to suffice.

Yet, even as he tells himself that, doubt creeps up into his mind. What if even this wasn’t enough? What if, despite his best efforts, he continued to plague his brother with his pitiful, hopeless issues?

By the time he’s back in his room and sitting on his mattress, the bottle of pills weighs heavy in his pocket like an anchor dragging him downwards. He fidgets restlessly against his dirty sheets before finally drawing up enough courage to pull the bottle out. Papyrus grips it tight for a moment then turns it over in his hands. He stares down at the unmarked container, teeth grit almost painfully tight. He feels his golden tooth creak with stress as he grinds it down, tense with stress as he comes to a decision.

Tonight, he’d take half a tablet. He’d gauge his body’s reaction to it before upping the dosage.

That was the appropriate way to handle things, right? The safest, sanest, way?

He hesitates only for a second before breaking a tablet in half and swallowing it dry.

He lays down on his mattress without changing—without even taking off his shoes, hood still pulled up over his head—and waits for sleep to come.

 

 

 

Every sound mixes in together. Things are too loud around him, a cacophony of noises he can’t parse. He can’t think. Can’t focus. The loudness presses in around him, suffocating and thick, drowning him in its density.

Someone shakes him by the shoulders. “Papyrus!”

He jolts, refocusing on the sound of his brother’s voice and the feeling of his gloved fingers holding tight around his humeri.

“Sans?” He asks, surprising even himself with how his voice comes as a whisper.

“Address me properly when we’re on duty, sentry.” His brother’s command is stern but it’s belied by the way his sockets peer up at him in obvious worry. Papyrus takes a moment to consider his surroundings, a handful of monsters snapping their curious glances away from him when he catches their eyes. That’s right. They’re on the training grounds. Of course. Apparently, he’d spaced out, the clanging of weapons and bashing of fists overwhelming him.

“Apologies, m’lord,” he murmurs, soft as he reorients. He feels listless and unsteady. A side effect of the medication?

Sans glares at him. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

The question has his soul pound erratically. Does Sans know about the pills? He couldn’t. It’s been less than a day and Papyrus has been careful to hide the bottle.

“Yes, m’lord,” he says, even though the medication had done nothing to help him last night. He’d been up later than ever, sockets burning and body sore, begging for relief. The brief snatches of sleep he’d catch had been about the same as his usual fair—tossing and turning and all around unsatisfying.

“Don’t lie to me, Papyrus,” his brother hisses like he can read Papyrus’s thoughts on his face, grip tightening almost enough to make him wince.

“What’s one night without rest?” He goes for a joke, crooked smile stealing its way onto his face. “Aren’t you always saying I sleep too much anyways?”

There’s an expression on Sans’ face that Papyrus is too slow to catch before it flits away into a scowl. His brother releases his hold on him, backing away and giving him a long, penetrating look. He does his best not to shake under Sans’ gaze.

“That’s enough combat practice. It’s been a long day.” It hasn’t, not for Sans, and Papyrus feels ashamed that, yet again, his brother is making concessions for him. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“I’m afraid I already have plans,” he says, backing away from his brother and shoving his hands firmly into the pockets of his hoodie, “Sorry, m’lord. I’ll see you later.”

Maybe if he leaves right now, Sans can get back to training without Papyrus there to distract him. It’s not right for a rising star like his brother to be held back by something so trivial as family. He takes another step back, even as Sans frowns and opens his mouth to speak, and teleports out of sight.

He lands, shaking and worn out, on the thin carpet in his room, lights off and mounds of trash collected around him. Papyrus takes a few wobbly steps towards his mattress before collapsing down into it. His soul pangs urgently, an ungodly ache seeping through his body, but he can’t string his thoughts together enough to figure out what for.

He’s so tired. He’s so _exhausted_.

He’d been foolish to think that half a tablet would’ve been enough.

Desperate for some sort of relief, he pushes back his covers until the torn-up seam in the left-hand side of his mattress is exposed. He shoves a hand into it, feeling around till his hands close on the small bottle of sleeping pills. Quickly dragging it out, he twists it open and shakes out one pill.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate before downing it. He’s recapping the bottle and replacing it in its hiding spot before the tablet had even made its way down his conjured throat. He lays back in bed, chest heaving as he pants with exertion.

It shouldn’t take so much effort to do things. He shouldn’t feel pushed to his limits when he’s done nothing at all.

But then, he’s always been a worthless sort of monster, hasn’t he? Incapable of even the simplest tasks without a steady hand to guide him. Where would he have been right now if not for his brother’s generosity?

Sans deserves better.

Papyrus shivers, arms crossing and gripping tight to his own humeri as he squeezes into himself. He’s bundled up in his jacket and he’s not a flesh-monster but he still feels cold. His sockets droop but his body remains impervious to sleep.

He lays awake and considers how much better off his brother would be without him.

 

 

 

The next day, he avoids Sans.

He feels jittery and out-of-place and he knows that if his brother saw him like this, it’d just needlessly worry him. Sans may put up a callous, unaffected front for the masses, but Papyrus was intensely aware of being his brother’s weak spot. It wouldn’t do to showcase that so obviously—not when his brother was doing so well establishing himself as a ruthless force to be reckoned with.

It proves easier said than done, however, as every time Papyrus tries to stay out of Sans’ sight, it seems as if his brother renews his efforts in tracking him down. Not even half the day has passed an he already feels weary, using his magic over and over to escape his brother’s notice. It doesn’t help that his sleepless nights and skipped meals are taking a huge toll on him, slowly down his reaction time and clouding his thoughts so he can’t concentrate enough to make quick decisions.

By the end of the day, he’s certain that Sans must be furious with him. Instead of staying entirely out of his brother’s sight, he’s been sloppy due to his exhaustion, always popping out of Sans’ view a moment too late to be stealthy. Numerous times he’s even heard the beginnings of a shout from his brother—an order to stay put that never quite establishes itself before Papyrus winks out of existence and reappears elsewhere.

That fraction of time is more than enough to see the frustration in his brother’s eyes though, and Papyrus stumbles into his room, anxious at the thought of having to face Sans when he comes home. He eyelights catch sight of his mattress as he bends to take off his shoes, bones trembling from exertion. He wonders if he can avoid the confrontation by sleeping through it instead.

With all the coordination of a drunken monster, Papyrus makes his way over to his bed and works his pills out from their hidden location. His limbs feel loose and his head feels floaty as he holds the bottle out in front of him, triumphant. He clicks open the cap and tips the bottle onto its side.

In his haste to get to the pills, far more than two tablets spill out of the bottle, some nearly tumbling out of his cupped hand and onto the floor. He curses under his breath, adjusting his grip to shove the extras back into the bottle. But, even as he starts to do so, he stops.

What’s to say taking two tablets will help him sleep any more than taking one did?

He stares at the pills as if entranced, eyelights focused on them.

Surely, the jump from one pill to two would be unremarkable? If he were to take, for example, three or four pills, that might actually do him some good. It might actually help him fall asleep within minutes instead of after countless, agonising hours.

And maybe… if he took _more_ than that, he’d be able to _stay_ asleep. Blissfully unconscious as he finally got the rest his body had been craving for so long.

“Papyrus.” The sound of his brother’s voice startles him and he jumps, pills falling through the gaps in his phalanges and bottle dropping out of his grasp. It hits the floor with a soft thud, contents scattering outwards in a half-circle by his feet.

“M-m’lord, I—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish before the force of his brother’s body knocks into him, pushing him backwards. He can’t right his balance and his feet stumble and trip over themselves. With Sans’ entire weight on his own, Papyrus falls onto his mattress with a strained creak of old, worn springs.

Sans has his face buried in the crook of Papyrus’s shoulder, arms clasped tightly around his back. Soul pounding, Papyrus cautiously raises his arms and puts them around his brother as well. As soon as he does, Sans starts to shake.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

He doesn’t quite understand what’s happening here or what exactly the apology for but he’s already shaking his head. “What are you talking about? You have nothing to apologise for.”

Sans shakes his head too, the motion jostling the fluff of Papyrus’s hood till it tickles the exposed bones of his vertebrae. “I should’ve seen the signs earlier. I should’ve known long before now that you were depressed.” His voice is unlike him, all soft and watery. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m so sorry.”

Papyrus feels like the wind has been knocked out of him a second time. “Sans, this isn’t what you think it is. I’m… I’m not depressed.”

His brother moves then, leaning up off of him enough to see his face. There’s no tears on his face but Sans’ eyelights look weary and cried out anyways. “Papy,” he starts, and the rarely used nickname from their younger days has Papyrus sharply sucking in a steadying breath, “If it’s not depression, then what could it possibly be?”

“I’m just. I’m just tired, Sans,” he tries to explain, fumbling over his words, “I never have enough energy to do anything. Sometimes, it seems like it’s too much effort to even eat. The… the pills are supposed to help with that.”

His brother stares at him, wordless.

Uncomfortable, Papyrus forces a laugh. “I mean, it used to be that I would get too much sleep and, even then, I felt exhausted afterwards. You remember that, right? But at least I could say that I was resting. Not at all like now.”

Sans searches his face, concern welling up in his sockets. He reaches out and cups Papyrus’s face in his hands, holds him like that with something heartbreaking in his touch. Papyrus places his hands over his brother’s. “I just need to sleep, Sans. That’s all the pills are for. I promise.”

“You’re treating the symptoms, brother,” Sans whispers, “Your irregular sleep schedule is due to your depression. Both the sleeping too much and the not being able to sleep at all.”

It’s Papyrus’s turn to stare as his brother continues to speak, “Not having an appetite is depression. Not having the energy to do things you’d otherwise enjoy is depression.” Sans drops his hands. “Not _caring_ , Papyrus? Not caring at all about your own well-being as you pour out pill after pill?”

His gaze is discerning, laying bare the countless secrets he’s kept from his brother over the many months this has gone on. “ _All_ of that is depression. And I’m so, so, sorry that it took me till now to notice it.”

“Sans, I…” He doesn’t know what to say, understanding dawning on him in slow increments. What Sans is saying makes sense, even if Papyrus would rather it didn’t. “It’s not your fault.”

“If you believe that, then I hope you know that it’s not your fault either, Papyrus.” When he doesn’t speak, Sans raises one hand to hold firmly onto his shoulder. “You can’t have it both ways, brother. Either we are both to blame or we are both absolved of it. I will not accept any other answer.”

So, in lieu of an answer, Papyrus sits up and leans into him instead. His soul is aching, slow, pulses of bone deep pain that set his joints aflame. He’s tired and his head hurts and everything feels like far too much for him to handle. He leans into his brother’s smaller frame and rests his skull against the edge of Sans’ collarbone.

It only takes a moment before his brother’s arms come up around him, holding him close. “We can figure this out together.” His brother makes the promise with all his usual certainty. “We’ll go see a professional about it. Someone trustworthy.”

Papyrus nods against him, trying to even out his breathing.

“We’ll even ask about those pills you got. Check and see if there’s something that would work better for you or if you even need them at all.” There’s the sound of bone clicking against bone and the press of something against his forehead. Papyrus flushes, feeling like child being soothed with a kiss. “You won’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Then his brother is pushing him back again, gentler than he ever usually is. He nudges Papyrus on the mattress till he’s making room at his side for his brother to lie down next to him. They lie face to face, Sans’ arms wrapped around him even in this position. It feels comfortable; safe.

“I’m here for you, Papyrus.”

He raises his own arms to rest at his brother’s side, soul quietening down to a slow humming of content. He mulls over what Sans has said as his brother strokes his spine, whispering soft reassurances. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had any hope in his future, but he allows himself to consider it, just this once.

And, even though Papyrus still has trouble sleeping through the night—pills still strewn across his threadbare carpet—at least Sans is right there with him.

Together, things might just turn out alright.


End file.
